A Robin Redbreast (In a Cage)
by onawingandaswear
Summary: At the end of it all, Hannibal is still in a cage of stone and glass and steel. There was never a thought, however, that Will Graham would come occupy the cell adjacent to his own.
1. Chapter 1

**Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; Excerpt from Official Transcript; Supervising Therapist: Dr. Leslie Burnett; Patient: Graham, William; (14:26, 7/28/2017)**

***Recording Start* **

_"How do you feel about Doctor Lecter trying to kill you to prevent being caught?"_

_"How do I feel? That's what you're going to start with today?"_

_"Given where we ended yesterday, it seems a logical place to start."_

_"So tell me, is 'Hannibal the Cannibal' just too kitschy? This is at least the fifth time you've used the license prefix 'Doctor', which, by now, I am fairly confident has been suspended by the Maryland Board of Medicine."_

_"We're not here to discuss grammar, we're here to discuss your experience and work through your trauma."_

_"I have a scar that runs from my lower abdomen to my ribcage, where a man who had known me intimately for over a year tried to eviscerate me. I've spent far too much time thinking about what he did and why he did it. Why he didn't kill me sooner, why he dragged it out so long, what the alternative might have been. I think, really, at the end, he was just trying to save me from what came next."_

_"And what was that?"_

_"This. All of this. The trials, the exposure, the incarceration. I think he thought killing me would save me from facing the consequences of his actions."_

_"Or he was simply protecting himself."_

_"I've entertained that thought, but no, his 'actions' came from a place of desperation. He wanted to protect me from himself. The only way to do that was to kill me."_

_"As a man who profiled serial killers for a living, do you see the flawed logic you've subscribed to? That a man of [Lecter's] constitution is even capable of affection?"_

_"You're a therapist in an asylum. Your job is to stay as emotionally distant from your patients as humanly possible. You can't even begin to understand what I was asked to do. What I still do at the behest of your supervisor."_

_"That's what I'm here to help you work through."_

_"My job was to get so deep into a murderer's psyche that I couldn't tell where I ended and the killer began. So when I said I was intimate with Lecter, I didn't mean in the physical sense. I let that man into every aspect of my life, and he was the closest thing I'd had to a friend in god knows how long. I can't tell you if he truly cared for me, but Hannibal Lecter was a good man right up until the moment he wasn't."_

_"Surely you've entertained the thought that he was never a good man, that it was all a facade?"_

_"I can tell you this, because it was my job to know this: he didn't try to kill me out of spite, or anger. He had too much respect for me, for our relationship, to do that. "_

_"I know you believe that, Will."_

_"I believe a number of things: I believe I'm sane. I believe that I was wrongfully incarcerated. I believe that when I leave this room, you'll note that I have some sort of repressed physical and emotional attraction to the man that put me in a coma and ultimately landed me in the chair before you. So please, really, tell me what I believe. Tell me what I believe, and I'll tell you where you can shove your pre-packaged psychoanalytical bullshit." _

_*****_**Recording Stopped***

* * *

Hannibal Lecter kills Will Graham on a Tuesday evening, spilling blood across slick-green Connemara tile with steady hands and the same distant remorse that haunted him specter-like throughout his youth.

The act is reflexive, the wide curve of the knife cutting up through Will's abdomen with the same deft accuracy Hannibal brought to his medical career; and everything that makes Will Graham human spills to the the ground in a mess of viscera and steaming, wet meat.

Will gasps and struggles like a fish pulled from a bowl by a careless child, and Hannibal doesn't want the night to end like this.

He snarls something crude about devouring Will's heart, but the words are hollow, masking the regret that curls through him like a disease too old and too fierce to be tamed by the sugar-pill platitudes of modern medicine.

He doesn't want this. Not really.

What he wants is to pull the red currant-glazed sea bass from the oven, pour two glasses of chardonnay and sit across from Will to savor the meal he has so carefully prepared for them both.

However, plans go awry. Will asks questions Hannibal is not prepared to answer, and he strikes out reflexively like a cornered animal, lunging with deadly claws in lieu of highly evolved intellect.

Will looks up at him with devastated eyes and tries valiantly to speak words that Hannibal does not want to hear, and Hannibal can only press his face to Will's, breathing in iron and copper and cheap aftershave, to whisper vicious, biting threats interspersed with involuntary apologies and _forgive me, Will, forgive me_.

Hannibal is convinced the deed is done, until a tell-tale crack of gunpowder thunder forces him to his feet even as pain blossoms across his abdomen, shooting up his nerve endings with crippling precision; he looks down, watching as fresh crimson stains the front of his dress shirt. His own blood mingling with Will's.

"I...forgive you..." Will rasps from the floor, one hand holding in his small intestines, the other leveling a black service pistol at Hannibal, a look of vengeful triumph on his face.

For a brief, shining moment, the world exists only for the two of them. Blood and anger and regret and Hannibal feels oily affection coiling through him, intertwining with crippling agony.

Then Will fires again, and again, and again, forcing Hannibal back and down, to fall bodily against his desk, sliding to rest on the now ruined carpet.

He would laugh if his lungs weren't filling with fluid.

There are sirens in the distance, and Hannibal realizes that Will must have lied about coming to see him first.

"Doctor...Lecter..." Hannibal hears Will weakly over the rush of blood in his own ears. "We...need to discuss...pro-professional boundaries..."

Hannibal does laugh this time, resting his head against imported ebony and tasting blood. He presses his lavender silk pocket square hard to the most severe of his wounds and feels the fabric grow wet.

"Next week then?" Hannibal breathes thickly, black spotting his vision. He can smell the risotto burning thick and dry on the stovetop and the sirens are deafening, the sound slipping from one sense to the next until he can feel the whining pulse deep in his bones.

Hannibal will survive his wounds, excessive though they might be. Will, however, Will's death will not be an easy one. More than anything Hannibal feels regret, but this is better for the both of them. Will can be spared from the coming storm, and Hannibal is spared from Will's damning empathy.

Part of him hopes Will won't be there to accuse him. Part of him hopes Will survives his wounds. Part of him regrets inviting Will over tonight at all.

Hannibal allows the pulsing of the sirens to lull him into unconsciousness, knowing instinctively that he will awaken on the other side of this dream a public enemy.

* * *

Hannibal wakes through a morphine haze and doesn't need to move his arms to know he's restrained. The steady thrum of heart monitors and respirators and muffled voices throwing him back to the days he spent attempting to save the lives of men and women he'd just as soon have killed.

He can't speak around the tracheal apparatus and he can't free his arms to remove the tube, so he is forced to wait a full twenty-three minutes before a young residency doctor notices his condition during rounds.

Word must travel quickly, because it's not a long wait at all before Jack Crawford appears, expression thunderous and Hannibal can only assume why that might be.

The man orders a nurse with thin blonde hair into the hall to wait with another agent Hannibal can't identify from where he's strapped to the hospital bed, and Jack looms over him in what he must think is a threatening position.

"It was _you_." Jack hisses when the door shuts behind them. "This whole time, you were the Ripper. I let you into my _home_."

Hannibal doesn't really see the appeal in keeping up appearances at this point.

"You let me into your home, and I let you into my kitchen. I believe we both know what that means." Hannibal speaks as steadily as he can, his voice hoarse from disuse and the residual effects of the feeding tube, and Jack looks as if the floor has dropped from beneath his feet.

"Did you really not piece it together until now?" Hannibal questions playfully. "Because I would have expected someone in your position to be slightly more intelligent."

Hannibal allows himself a moment to savor the warring emotions on Jack's face when the man throws up a hand, index finger pointing in a manner Jack must feel will intimidate him.

"I'm going to make sure you rot, Lecter." he says, already moving away. "We're finished here." he announces loudly, and Hannibal just laughs, throat burning. Jack rips the door wide, the force slamming it against the wall with a crack.

"Oh, I assure you, Jack, that is far from the truth." Hannibal calls after him, savoring the implications and the knowledge that finally,_finally_, he does not have to bow to his lessors. "Don't you want to know what happened to Miriam?"

Jack reappears in the doorway, expression blank and Hannibal knows he's won.

"I know what happened. She got too close, and you killed her." Jack says, clearly intending to have the last word.

"Yes," Hannibal agrees. "I killed her. I killed her, and you ate her. It is amazing how long you can keep meat these days, don't you agree?"

Jack's face twists up and he's gone again from sight.

Hannibal lets his eyes slip shut, irritated that his body is still too weak to stay alert, but the discomfort passes.

Even now, even in defeat, Hannibal has emerged victorious.


	2. Chapter 2

**Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; Excerpt from Official Transcript; Supervising Therapist: Dr. Frederick Chilton; Patient: Lecter, Hannibal; (9:14, 8/16/2015)**

***Recording Start***

_"You're famous, Doctor Lecter."_

_"Though not as famous as I will be when you publish your findings on the results of my behavioral analysis."_

_"Hopefully."_

_"'Hopefully'? Do you mean for the report to reflect positively in regard to my infamy or to potentially erase the public memory of your own past failures regarding would-be serial killers?"_

_"I know you're trying to get a rise out of me, but I'm here to tell you that it wouldn't be wise to upset the man who's going to be in charge of your amenities. I was in your home, Doctor. I know exactly how to make your stay with us dreadfully uncomfortable."_

_"You are making a great mistake in assuming that I am adverse to hardship, Frederick. If there is one thing in this world I have learned to do, it is survive. Amenities or no, I will outlast you."_

_"You don't frighten me. You're just a broken man clinging to the last shreds of his freedom, and I have seen every horror you can imagine walk through these halls. There is nothing you can say that will shock me."_

_"I fed you the tongue of your daughter's english tutor. Does that shock you?"_

***Recording Stop***

* * *

"We're going to lose," Hannibal's lawyer tells him when they first meet, before social niceties have been exchanged and before Hannibal can arrange his restraints in a manner that allows him to sit comfortably.

After six months his injuries have largely healed, but his lung capacity is still significantly decreased and his chest burns if he doesn't find just the right angle to hold himself upright.

"We are going to lose and you're going to prison. I'll do my best, for reputation's sake, but no jury in the world is going to let you walk."

Hannibal's accounts have been frozen, his assets seized, and the only option afforded to him is the court-appointed public defender before him who has little interest in actually keeping him out of a state institution; a jaded woman in her forties who introduces herself as Jennifer Clarke and holds posture like a woman who is not getting enough calcium in her diet.

She looks at Hannibal with such disdain that for a moment he is grateful for the thick plexiglass that separates them.

They discuss witnesses, expert testimony and pleading insanity.

Hannibal notes that 'Will Graham' is not listed on the prosecution's proposed witness list.

"I would like to at least attempt to defend myself." Hannibal tells her firmly, and Clarke stares at him with the eyes of a doe too startled to get out of the path of oncoming traffic.

"You're the new Dahmer," she says closing the file and obscuring the name Hannibal knows is not actually listed. "They want to see you on a _spit_."

She stands abruptly, gathering her papers. "The best we can hope for is an insanity plea, and I know you are a smart enough man to have already acknowledged that fact."

Hannibal leans forward in his seat, ignoring the biting pain in his chest.

"This is going to happen one of two ways," he starts, and she deflates, her dismissive nature gone as readily as it had been introduced. "Either you get yourself together and do your job properly, defending me to the best of your ability and I am placed in a maximum security penitentiary as a member of the general population, or you defend me to the best of your ability and I am placed in a maximum security mental institution."

"Which on do you want?" she asks him, tone wry and uninterested.

"No, my dear," Hannibal counters. "The question is which one will prevent your eventual death."

Clarke smiles tightly.

"I'll see you thursday, Mister Lecter."

"It's 'Doctor'." Hannibal says as she walks away and the guards come to fix his restraints.

Hannibal knows he is condemned to his fate before his trial ever occurs.

The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane holds him for months, as he is too high a flight risk to be granted bail. He makes himself comfortable, because unless Clarke suddenly finds the motivation to put her due diligence toward obtaining his freedom, this will be Hannibal's new place of residence.

* * *

Hannibal spends weeks being shuttled between his cell, therapy sessions and appointments with his lawyer. The food is bland and drugged, his clothing is made of synthetic material and he has no privacy between the curious staff and oblivious patients.

Perhaps this is why it is so surprising to see a familiar face, albeit an unwanted one.

"You know your lawyer cut a book deal? Trial doesn't even have a date yet and she's already cashing in. Doesn't it make you furious? Almost like you could just kill someone?"

"You really must work on your projection issues, Ms. Lounds." Hannibal tells her, refusing to move from the cot that now constitutes his bed.

A part of Hannibal longs for his Egyptian cotton linens, but that same part is mocked by the memory of a young man shivering beneath surplus Soviet wool blankets.

"And I must say it is quite surprising to see you."

"I have my connections, and please, call me Freddie."

"I am sure you do, _Freddie_." Hannibal can already feel his patience waning.

"You know the press thinks Will Graham was working with you?" Lounds offers calmly, her disinterested tone intended to be baiting.

Hannibal is not pleased that this information catches him by surprise. His ignorance must show on his face, because Lounds smiles indulgently and pushes a curl of hair shockingly red hair away from her face; a motion conveying arrogant superiority.

"I see this is news to you. You should hear the speculation, you gut him like a pig, and everyone thinks it's because you two had some sort of falling out; maybe a lover's quarrel?"

"And I am sure you had nothing to do with that sort of speculation." Hannibal says, and Lounds smiles, pink lips pulled taught across her teeth.

"Well, a candlelight dinner for two and an almost double murder? You don't have to be a detective to figure that one out."

"No. Just a tabloid journalist, it would seem."

"I'm only here to verify my sources, get my information right from the horse's mouth."

Hannibal grimaces at the expression.

"Does it excite you, tiptoeing through the world of men; seducing as you please to attain what you desire?"

Lounds looks smug as she leans back in her chair, posture purposefully accentuating her pale neck and cleavage.

"I'm not afraid of you, Lecter. I don't have to worry about a thing, not anymore because you're in there and I'm out here, and we both know I have the power to say whatever I want. The second I get caught, in here, talking to you, my legitimacy increases tenfold. If you want your story told, I'm the one to do it."

"I seem to recall you making a similar pitch to Abigail Hobbs, and besides, it seems you already have your story: 'Intrepid reporter risks life to interview Ripper'. What ever could you possibly need from me?"

"The Shrike is old news, and I already told you. I need verification. Legitimacy. I have a source at the FBI who swears up and down that you and Graham were 'intimate'," Hannibal runs the information through his mind, wondering who was close enough to Will to wrongfully assume such a thing, but loses the thought when Lounds presses on. "I want to know if that's true. Were you sleeping together? Was he helping you with the murders?"

The questions rattle through Hannibal's skull like pebbles thrown at a window pane, and misplaced regret coils hot in the back of his mind.

"I am the Chesapeake Ripper, I received no assistance," he tells her, and as much as Hannibal wishes things had ended differently, that is the truth.

Lounds appears displeased by the answer and something akin to a sneer works it's way across her mouth.

"Are you sure? Because it sounds like you're covering for Graham."

Hannibal is angry at himself for not anticipating this course of conversation.

"It sounds like you have the story you wish to write already well documented, _Freddie._"

Lounds purses her lips and scowls.

"You're really going to stand there and tell me you have nothing to say. You're going to give me free reign to write whatever I want without objection?"

"I have objected. I have told you the truth. Your arrogance and ignorance have glossed any legitimacy you are likely to find here today, and quite frankly I am surprised you have made it this far as a journalist given your complete lack of interest in uncovering worthwhile information. Consider, if you will, your drive to break into a high security facility to interview an accused serial murderer. I would think that any journalist worth her salt would at least prepare some questions first, or was your largest concern finding a guard dumb enough to trade your cunt for an access code?"

Lounds goes red in the face.

"I haven't forgotten your little threats, _Hannibal._ I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure you and that psycho Graham waste away behind prison bars."

The first 'your' is clearly plural, and Lounds speaks of Will in the present tense.

Hannibal's breathing stutters before he can recover himself. Up until this moment there has been no legitimate indication from anyone that Will had survived his ordeal.

"Oh, my God," Lounds laughs, hand held teasingly over he lips in a parody of surprise. "Did no one tell you? After all this time?"

Hannibal takes a step toward the bars and Lounds takes a single step back grinning like she's accomplished some great feat.

"You didn't quite hit the mark on that one, Doctor."

He tries to think of something to say, anything to quell his screaming mind, but nothing comes so he lets out a breath through his teeth; a low _hiss_ that fills the room.

"I'll see you in court, Doctor." Lounds smiles and turns away, hair bobbing as she walks away, radiating joy and victory.

Hannibal can't say the same about how he feels at the moment, however.

* * *

Long after Freddie Lounds' visit, after Hannibal has had ample time to compose himself, asks a night guard after the well being of his former patient.

"The last guy you tried to kill, right? Graham? He's alive, barely," the balding man tells him. James, the name-tag on his left pectoral supplies. "In a coma or some shit. News says he can't testify anyway, 'cause he's a suspect too."

"Pardon?"

"Yeah, something about finding human DNA in his fridge. The papers are saying it's suspected that he's your partner, that the FBI may have freelanced two psychopaths."

The information leaves a sour taste in Hannibal's mouth, but really everything accomplishes that feat these days.

"They will lock him away to punish me."

It's not a question, and James gives him an odd look. "What, so he didn't help you?"

"If he did, he was an unwilling participant."

"But you two were fucking, right?"

Something twists in Hannibal at the implication.

"Our compatibility had nothing to do with my actions."

"So you just gutted your boyfriend? For no reason at all?"

Hannibal doesn't bother to scour away the look of distaste that he knows is creeping across his features or correct the man's misinformed assumption.

"I did not want to see him hurt by my actions." Hannibal tells him.

The man looks almost sympathetic, but then seems to realize who he's conversing with and must think better of it, schooling the expression from his face.

"Pretty fucked up way of expressing your affection," he says, moving away from Hannibal's cell.

"I am aware of this all too well." Hannibal agrees.

The conversation ends as abruptly as it had begun, but Hannibal has his answers. Will is alive, if just barely enough to complicate things terribly.

* * *

A trial date is set, a jury selected, and Clarke appears unexpectedly one morning wearing day-old clothes and and reeking of exhaustion.

"The prosecution is claiming you're violent, unstable, and certain precautions need to be taken while you're in the court room."

"And what, exactly, do those procedures entail?" Hannibal asks her, genuinely curious.

"It's completely archaic," she starts, but is reluctant to continue.

"Ms. Clarke?" Hannibal prods lightly.

"It's a muzzle. They want to play up the cannibal angle. You also won't be allowed to appear in your own clothing. You have to wear what the hospital provides."

Hannibal could care less about the mask, but appearing in public without decent attire is enough to make him gag.

"Tell them I'm amenable to the facial restraints if I can wear a suit." Hannibal offers, and returns to his reading.

Clarke looks vaguely nauseous but nods and moves to leave.

"Ms, Clarke?" Hannibal stops her. "If you have any control over such decisions, the navy Valentino three-piece. Matte black Zegna loafers, cornflower blue silk tie, matching pocket square."

She nods again and departs.

"If they are worried I am a danger to society," Hannibal tells himself, thumbing through the list of his federal charges. "Then I shall make myself one."

* * *

Hannibal takes a page out of Abel Gideon's playbook and fakes an illness.

By the time everything is said and done, there's a orderly in the infirmary who is going to lose his left hand and a guard that is going to need plastic surgery to repair what has been done to his face.

They don't let him wear his suit.

* * *

Hannibal's trial takes weeks, a long, drawn out thing that seems to serve no purpose but to gratuitously examine every facet of Hannibal's crimes, and he's terribly bored by the third day. The blubbering family members and the hard-lipped jury members, the prosecuting lawyers practically vibrating with the knowledge that this will be the case that makes their career, it's all so meaningless.

They tell him to look sympathetic and show remorse, but there is really no point given the menacing nature of the apparatus strapped to his face.

After the first two weeks, Clarke begins spiking her morning coffee. She recycles the same phrases in interviews, and she tells him they're pleading insanity. He's not insane, and the implication is offensive, but she puts forth the filing anyway.

Truthfully, Hannibal quite prefers Chilton as the devil he knows,.

It's nauseating waiting for the pathetic masses to determine his fate, so he stops trying. He takes off his 'human veil', as Bedelia had once so eloquently put it, and takes the stand.

He baits the prosecution, watches as the countless reporters lining the back wall tweet and blog and post about his insanity. His god complex. His chilling demeanor as viewed through the rose-colored lens of distinctly American xenophobia. They co-opt Freddie Lounds' genius word association and dub him 'Hannibal the Cannibal'.

They're not wrong, even if the descriptor is vulgar.

Jack Crawford is called b the prosecution, and the man rakes Hannibal over the coals, his rage so tangible Hannibal can almost taste it.

When they call Abigail, Hannibal is curious to see what will occur. When they question her about Hannibal's role in her life, if he threatened her or harmed her in any way, Abigail looks to Hannibal with pleading eyes. Hannibal dips his head slightly, as much as is possible given the restraints, to give her permission to take the opportunity afforded her.

She tells the court about how Hannibal murdered Nicholas Boyle and threatened her to prevent her from informing the FBI. There are tears and she looks horrified at the end of he story, but Hannibal gives her what he hopes is a forgiving smile before she's spirited away.

Hannibal knows he'll never see her again.

* * *

The 'victims' of Hannibal's crimes have requested a chance to confront him before the verdict is read, and he knows exactly what these people want to see. They want to bear witness to a broken man, guilt-ridden by his actions and apologetic; eager to prostrate himself to the will of the public and the court system. They expect him to repent.

He will do no such thing.

An attractive woman in her early forties stands, makeup smudged and whimpering pathetically, and begins to speak about her late husband; one of Hannibal's most recent harvests and waste of sentient flesh. The room is aghast when he tells her as much, and also reveals the existence of the man's second family.

A pattern soon emerges, and Hannibal gets some small pleasure from watching the faces of the mourning family members grow horrified as he recounts the events that forced his hand to begin with.

Hannibal knows there are more families, but after a time no one else steps forward. Collectively unwilling, it would seem, to wish to discover that their spouse had been unfaithful, that their child had been a pedophile or that their parent had simply cursed their way into an entree.

The whole world is against him now, and cheers erupt when the foreman declares Hannibal guilty of all charges. The verdict should sting more than it does.

Really, though, he's just glad Will isn't conscious to witness Hannibal's fall from grace.


	3. Chapter 3

**Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; Excerpt from Official Transcript; Supervising Therapist: Dr. Frederick Chilton; Patient: Lecter, Hannibal; (13:11, 6/24/2014)**

**/Audio Recording Edited for Content (Federal Authorization: 70392-Crawford, Jack; 6/12/2018)/**

***Recording Start***

_"-and the only reason you're even here is because I testified that you were more valuable alive."_

_"Losing control of your temper in front of your staff and patients? Not the most efficient way to run an asylum, one might think the stress is getting to you. Perhaps I'll write an article on your deteriorating mental state. I'm sure I can find a journal to publish it, after all my name carries such weight in our field-"_

_"I've worked too long and too hard on this, I will find a way to make you give me what I want."_

_"Is that supposed to frighten me?"_

***Recording End***

* * *

**Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; Excerpt from Official Transcript; Supervising Therapist: Dr. Leslie Burnett; Patient: Graham, William; (8:19, 10/19/2017)**

**/Audio Recording Edited for Content (Federal Authorization: 70392-Crawford, Jack; 6/12/2018)/**

***Recording Start***

_"This is all a game. An epic, cataclysmic battle between a god and a man, and I'm just a pawn. The priest that can translate the text but can't write it. "_

_"Why would you believe that?"_

_"In what reality is it an approved therapeutic practice to place a patient in direct contact with their would-be murderer?"_

_"Are you referring to the fact that Doctor Lecter is housed in the same facility as yourself?"_

_"No, I mean I have been living in a cell next to Hannibal Lecter."_

_"That can't be right,"_

_"I assure you, it is."_

_*shuffling*_

_"But you're in a minimum security wing, it's in your file,"_

_"Tell that to the cannibal that talks me to sleep every night."_

***Recording End***

* * *

Hannibal has studied the effects of social exclusion. In some circles, he's still a respected authority on the subject.

Perhaps this is why it is so difficult to watch his carefully crafted reality slip away, the beauty of a world Hannibal has spent so long creating devolving into a brick and mortar institution of unintelligible minds and cloying, pheromone-thick fear.

Rage claws at his innards like a disease borne of the flesh, and he feeds that imagined bacterium fire with knowledge of the world he'd left behind.

His sanity is never in question, for his mind will never really be his to lose. His patience, however; his finely tuned restraint, those things deteriorate with all the finesse of a crumbling dam. Playing these games, jumping through hoops like a well trained animal, truthfully he's torn.

There is the distinct pleasure of watching a man like Frederick Chilton choke on the fumes of his failure, but that failure is inexorably tied to Hannibal's public persona. Does he continue to publish, humiliating his jailer at the cost of offering the medical community an unobstructed glimpse of his psyche, or does he drop the veil and expose a man he's not even sure exists?

Hannibal lets his head fall back against the wall and allows the metal edge of the bunk press sharply into his calf. His muscle tone is deteriorating without sufficient protein intake. Too many carbohydrates. Vegetable slop that lacks sufficient vitamin content.

He can't stop the way his lip pinches up into what feels like a sneer.

He has to stop thinking about food. About freedom. There will come a time and place for such thoughts, but now is not that moment.

Hannibal relaxes his face, muscles loosening as he allows his eyes to slip shut. It has been far too long since he last meditated, and seeing as his schedule for the next hundred and twenty years has been left unoccupied, he might as well begin the practice again.

He'd missed his mental palace. Perhaps now would be a fitting time for a series of renovations.

* * *

"Years. I've known you for years. And all this time?"

"All this time." Hannibal agrees. "I feel like there is nothing I can say to placate you?"

"You're damn right about that." Alana Bloom pulls a folding chair from where it seems to be perpetually backed against the wall outside of his cell; placed, evidently, for the comfort of the endless stream of mental health professionals attempting to successfully profile him.

Her hair is shorter now, barely skimming the soft ridges of her clavicle bones.

"Should I assume you have worked past your revulsion toward me?" he asks her, as cordially as he can muster in a dull-blue jumpsuit.

"Oh, no, when you were caught I purged until there was very little liquid left in my body," she laughs without humor and twists at a silver ring on her right index finger.

"Every now and then I see an article about you, or your victims, and I get nauseous thinking, 'What part of that man did I consume?', 'Did I ingest that woman's flesh?". So, no, I haven't yet worked through my revulsion toward you or your crimes. That fact does not, however, make me any less curious about why you did what you did."

A small part of Hannibal, an infinitesimal part, really, wants to comfort Alana. Wrap her in a blanket and brush away the doubt that plagues her mind.

He had feelings for her once, and Hannibal remembers the spark of arousal that would burn through him whenever she wore that one burgundy blouse; always with a dark pencil skirt and two-inch pumps so as not to strain her arches. There was a time when he imagined what that outfit would look like strewn haphazardly around his office, her legs around his waist, heels digging into the meat of his thighs. That was some time ago, however, and he respects the woman before him now too much to defile her in such a way.

Nonetheless, he smiles at the memory as Alana barrels on.

"Hannibal, what happened? Really? A hundred and one studies pop up theorizing why you're you, and I've read them all, Hannibal, I have; but at the end of the day I knew you, I was your friend, and I had no idea. I still have no idea."

"You should not blame yourself, I have spent a great deal of my life hiding my proclivities." he tells her honestly, leaning slightly against the bars of his cell.

"I hope you have some idea what you've put me through, not that you care," she bites back, but trails off, for the first time seeing the drawings Hannibal has only haphazardly been able to place around his cell, her eyes catching on a sketch Hannibal has not found the energy to complete.

"Is that Abigail?" Hannibal maintains his position and waits for Alana to return her attention to him. "Why do you have a picture of her?"

"I am not allowed any of my personal possessions, it became necessary to recreate what I could."

The brief flash of pity that Alana displays annoys Hannibal more than anything else, even if there is a burn that accompanies the expression.

It's misplaced and infuriating.

"Where am I?" Alana asks suddenly, gaze fierce, and Hannibal recognizes the challenging tone. "Where's Will?"

"I knew you would come to see me at some point, it was not as vital an effort to capture your image on paper."

"Well that's a fuck you if I've ever heard one," she mutters, her stage whisper tenor carrying easily through the hallway. "But you expect to see Will again as well?"

"Why are you here really, Alana? It is not for an explanation, not really, and it's not for information," she makes a face at his remarks and he knows exactly what this is all regarding. "You're here to chastise me."

Alana narrows her eyes and stands abruptly, unable to prevent the chair from skidding back a enough to make a hollow sound.

"What you did was unforgivable, and I have no doubt that something in your childhood broke you so badly there was nothing left to fix, but dragging Will into this? You wanted him to suffer."

The accusation falls flat and the room echoes with silence as Hannibal formulates a response worthy of the woman that stands before him. Once a friend, a colleague; on more than one occasion an almost lover.

"I did not intend Will to survive," he starts, voice unrepentant.

"Obviously." Alana spits with all the venom Hannibal is sure she thinks he deserves.

"I did not intend him to discover my nature, I did not intend him to survive. Despite what you may think of me, my actions were meant to be merciful."

"Bullshit. If you wanted to be merciful, to protect him, you would have slit his throat; pierced his heart. A thousand deaths you could have delivered that would have been quick and relatively painless, but you gutted him. You wanted to hurt him. There is a legitimate reason that so many people think you had feelings for Will, and it all stems from the way you tried to end his life."

"No," Hannibal corrects firmly. "The rumors of a relationship stemmed from Freddie Lounds whoring herself out for unverified information."

"Information that has been backed up by behavioral scientists." Alana counters, arms crossed over her chest.

"Alana, you believe we were friends, and I seem to maintain the same delusion, so tell me, honestly, what do you think transpired between myself and Will Graham?"

"I think you manipulated him. You exploited his ability to empathize with psychotic individuals to place yourself in a position of power and to avoid detection as the Chesapeake Ripper."

Hannibal ducks his head in an understanding nod. Hers is a fair assessment.

"I also think," Alana continues, undeterred. "That you felt a connection to Will, which, given more time, may have developed into something tangible."

Hannibal drops his head and groans loudly to play up the dramatics of the moment.

"Not you as well, Alana," he bemoans. "After everything,"

"The way you attacked him, the damage you did, motive or no, indicates a deep-seated, self-directed and internalized rage at the committing of the crime in general. You wanted to punish yourself, and the easiest way to do that, the most painful, was to harm Will."

Alana adjusts her skirt, the unconscious motion signaling their conversation has come to a close.

"Go ahead," she says tightly. "Ask. I know you want to."

Hannibal pushes himself away from the bars and watches Alana. Her calf muscle twitching slightly from where she's trying not to bounce her heel and show her nervousness.

"How is he." Hannibal offers finally, and she blinks hard.

"He's mostly healed. He's being brought up on a number of otherwise unsubstantiated charges because of your relationship," she places a hard emphasis on 'relationship'. "Jack is fighting tooth and nail to get him off the hook, but after Gideon," she doesn't finish the though, and rightfully so. Gideon had nearly cost Jack his career, let alone Will's legitimacy in the field.

"Guilty until proven innocent." Hannibal tells her, the colloquialism bitter on his tongue, and she hums in agreement.

"No trial date yet, but they'll rake him through the coals for the sake of a story. Somedays I wish you had killed him. Saved us all the trouble of watching him die slowly."

Alana purposefully nudges the chair backward with the tip of her shoe, the sharp ring of metal on concrete reverberating through the hallway.

"I'll be seeing you, Hannibal." Alana tells him, tone indicating that seeing him again may be the last thing she will ever voluntarily do, so Hannibal waves a hand in dismissal.

She's almost out of sight when Hannibal whistles sharply and the click of her shoes halts.

"One last thing, Alana," he calls out to her. "You wondered what you'd consumed?"

The silence of reluctant curiosity is the only response he receives.

"I do care about you, as a dear friend and colleague. Perhaps that is why I spent so long curing the wine barrel."

Hannibal will go to sleep that night recalling the sound of Dr. Alana Bloom regurgitating her lunch atop Frederick Chilton's Italian leather loafers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; Excerpt from Official Transcript; Supervising Therapist: Dr. Frederick Chilton; Patient: Lecter, Hannibal; (9:14, 7/16/2017)**

**/Audio Recording Edited for Content (Federal Authorization: 70392-Crawford, Jack; 6/12/2018)/**

***Recording Start***

_"So, tell me, how are you liking your accommodations? Everything up to your standards?"_

_"What did you have to do to get him here? Auction off your mythical PhD? Prostrate yourself before a federal court?"_

_"Taunt me all you like, but this is me victorious."_

_"Victorious. You are a child; unable to earn respect so you demand it. You have no idea what you want to come of this. Not really. If you did, you never would have brought him here; you would not have put him in that kind of danger. Tell me, are you prepared to lose everything once I've destroyed him? Do you believe your reputation still has enough resilience to withstand the onslaught of a federal inquiry? "_

_"Are you going to attempt to harm Will Graham?"_

_"I already have, Frederick."_

_"Hannibal, Will Graham has given his informed consent with the full-faith backing of a federal investigative agency. I can pursue any treatment I deem necessary, and I'll tell you, he is in desperate need of legitimate psychological therapy. He's absolutely convinced that he's being housed in a cell next to a mentally deranged cannibal, the same man that tried to kill him a few years back. So, it is quite easy to see that his mental condition is rapidly deteriorating, and I'm going to do everything I can to make sure he's healthy and hale by the time he's ready to be released."_

_"Am I to assume that this was your grand plan?"_

_"I simply want to understand Will Graham's 'empathy disorder', as you so quaintly described it to me all those years ago. Right now, you're just the catalyst. That's all you'll be unless you start playing along, because I have six months with him, but I have a lifetime with you."_

***Recording Stop***

* * *

**Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; Excerpt from Official Transcript; Supervising Therapist: Dr. Frederick Chilton; Patient: Graham, William; (14:26, 8/24/2017)**

**/Audio Recording Edited for Content (Federal Authorization: 70392-Crawford, Jack; 6/12/2018)/**

***Recording Start***

_"I understand you're having some concerns about your sleeping arrangements."_

_"That's one way to put it."_

_"Well, I don't see a problem here. Second floor, western facing window; I understand you have a nice view of the duck pond."_

_"You and I both know that's a lie."_

_"Mister Graham, we've had our differences in the past, but trust me, I have your best interests at heart. You did consent to be treated."_

_"I did consent, but not to be treated by you. Not in this facility, I don't know how you managed to get me transferred-"_

_"You have another three months here, Mister Graham. Hopefully we'll have you sorted out by then."_

***Recording Stop***

* * *

There's too much time. Time to think. To assess. To regret.

Alana doesn't return after her initial visit, and the lack of new information only allows Hannibal to turn their last conversation over in his mind until the words and realizations have evolved; their meanings simultaneously revelatory and illusory.

It is not until months after the fact that Hannibal comes to a realization as he catches himself idly sketching what he can recall of Will Graham in the monochrome of cheap paper and graphite.

Before, Hannibal had seen Will as a kindred soul, and had been drawn to the younger man like a moth to a flame. It was not just Will's startling empathy, it was his brilliance, his perception and understanding. A myriad of internal and societal pressures that had created a being capable of staring into the abyss and not be lost to it; despite Hannibal's best misguided efforts at pushing Will over that finite edge.

Even now, Will holds a place of honor in Hannibal's memory; a shrine of blood and bone locked away deep in his mental palace, in some ways hidden even from Hannibal's prying eyes.

If he still had the capacity to dream of pleasant things, he imagines he would dream of Will, hand in hand beside him at the opera. Will playfully helping Hannibal prepare dinner in the kitchen. Will lying naked in Hannibal's bed. Will with a knife in his hand.

Will, handsome in such an understated way and so deeply tainted, able to empathize with the most perverse of humanity, lying in Hannibal's arms, watching him with sympathetic eyes, voicing words of comfort and understanding.

But Hannibal does not dream of these things. He dreams of copper bathing tubs and the taste of blood. It's been many years since he last woke to the sounds of his own screams, but the muscle memory remains.

When Hannibal imagines such things, truly allows himself the pleasure of an altered reality, he only feels the hunger that accompanies crippling loneliness. A craving for human contact, an emotional connection, a desire for mutual affection that he has spent far too long attempting to deny.

How. How in the name of all the horrors done to him and done by him did he not realize that what he felt for Will Graham extended beyond platitudinal affection?

His existence does not lack purpose or companionship, it lacks Will.

* * *

Two years. Two years Hannibal has spent in a featureless room; fed a nutrient-free diet that is prematurely greying his hair and putting him at risk for any number of immune deficiencies.

Two years Chilton digs at Hannibal, trying to salvage his reputation. Countless tests and analysis, over and over and one day he simply stops responding to questioning. He refuses to fill out the forms.

Hannibal still writes his articles, he still receives copies of the newest psychological and medical journals, despite the hospital staff's vehement protests, and he still communicates with the outside world; albeit in a greatly inhibited fashion.

'Fans' of his work send countless letters and clippings from news outlets worldwide. The process of sifting through the drivel is exhausting, letter after banal letter confessing appreciation for his work while the mentally confused and the emotionally stunted confess love and adoration, ignorant of the knowledge that their blind worship is as meaningless to him now as the color of the sky, but he does glean important information from these sources.

This is how he discovers the details of Will's delightfully disturbing lawsuit.

Hannibal does feel a slight twinge of guilt over the whole thing, seeing as the case was brought not by the state but by the surviving families of Hannibal's victims; alleging that Will's interaction with Hannibal constituted gross negligence at best and accessory to murder at worst.

If Hannibal's legal misadventures were trying, he cannot fathom the unending torture Will's arraignment must have been. Especially for a man of Will's unique emotional vulnerability, but the trial comes and goes. Will is found not guilty, rightly so, Hannibal believes, and the days slip onward.

At least until Jenna Burkhardt of Birmingham, Alabama - a mother of two with an unfaithful husband and a taste for the adventurous - writes him about 'The Book'.

* * *

'The Book' itself is a two-hundred and seventy-four page brick that catalogues the Chesapeake Ripper's killing spree and subsequent capture compiled and written, unsurprisingly, by one Freddie Lounds of fame.

Hannibal never does manage to get his hands on a copy, thanks to the latest squabble between himself and Frederick Chilton, but he is able to glean a substantial amount of information regarding the book's contents from his adoring public.

Allegedly written and published before the final verdict was handed down at Will's trial, the 'tell-all' accuses Graham of mental instability, obstruction of justice and, perhaps the most damning of all, of being sexually involved with the Chesapeake Ripper.

Hannibal is informed there are 'pictures'. Of what, he cannot fathom, but it is easy to see that this tabloid libel has spread far and wide. The number of correspondences he receives daily skyrockets, and suddenly he's not being damned to the fires of hell for his acts of murder and consumption, but for the significantly more sinister crime of lying with another man.

The whole event is infuriatingly dull, and while Hannibal is in the perfect position to not be affected in the least, there is no way this storm has not touched Will, and Hannibal is angry for a man he has not seen in years.

A British news outlet offers him thirty-thousand dollars to publish the details of his and Will's 'nightmare romance'. Other offers soon follow. He doesn't respond and the flood of mail crescendos into nothing.

No amount of petty cash is worth the sacrifice of one's principles.

Besides, the money would serve Will more readily than it would Hannibal, should the man chose to pursue such avenues; but it's all such vulgar recompense.

* * *

The deadlock on the security gate doesn't seal properly if the grate isn't lined up perfectly; Hannibal notes this as he's led to the recreation room.

He stores the knowledge away for later.

* * *

Hannibal's cell is the farthest removed from the entrance, of the four, he has the added joy of not being able to see much beyond the almost elegant masonry of the opposing wall.

He may spend the rest of his days here, and the one thing that he will never adjust to is the lack of visibility.

"It is a beautiful day outside, Hannibal." Chilton preens, safely behind the metal that separates Hannibal from the rest of the population. He holds himself stiffly, shoulders braced back and posture military straight; a holdover from the physical therapy Abel Gideon, and Hannibal himself, by proxy, made necessary.

"The sun is shining, the birds are chirping and you're in here with me."

Hannibal doesn't care, and he doesn't bother to hide this fact from Chilton, who himself side-eyes Hannibal with muted disdain. Their relationship is not a complicated one, although Chilton's insistence at calling Hannibal by his first name to establish a false sense of camaraderie and influence is beyond grating.

"Oh, I'd pay attention if I were you, Lecter," Chilton says, dropping the cadence of his tone so only Hannibal can hear. "Because I'm going to conduct a little experiment. Just between you and me."

Hannibal lifts a brow and Chilton retreats with an indulgent little grin.

"Three days, Hannibal." Chilton calls out, raising his arm to display three slim fingers as he walks away. "Three days, and I get to watch your little world come undone."

* * *

Three days come and pass. Hannibal doesn't expect anything from Chilton, not anymore. There is nothing the man can do that Hannibal can not turn right back around on him.

The droning buzz that preludes the unlocking of the security door is far from alarming, but it is curious. Hannibal looks up from the most recent copy of the American Journal of Psychiatry that he's managed to procure.

The inset wall clock silently glows _2:47. _Too early for dinner service and the wrong weekday for recreation. No scheduled therapy or testing. Which means someone is being transferred.

Hannibal desperately hopes they take Miggs. Preferably out back to be shot.

His hopes are shattered when the aforementioned Miggs mutters something vulgar about 'fresh meat'.

A visitor then.

Hannibal picks up on the carefully measures footfalls of one Frederick Chilton and at least two other men. They stop short of Hannibal's cell and he can't see who, or what, exactly, lies beyond.

"This is familiar, isn't it Mr. Graham? Make nice with your neighbors, and individual therapy starts tomorrow morning."

Hannibal was not convinced he would ever have another opportunity to feel anticipation in the manner he does now.

"Will?"

"No. No, you're not here, not now."

Hannibal cannot prevent the smile that stretches his lips, the muscles protesting the foreign motion.

"Breathe, good Will. It's two fifty-nine p.m., you are in Catonsville, Maryland, and your name is Will Graham."

It's the wrong thing to say. Hannibal knows it's the wrong thing to say but he has to be sure.

Silence. Blissfully, devastating silence.

And then, "You've got to be kidding."

Hannibal could laugh, deep and true, in this moment. He pushes up from the table and breathes deeply before calling out to his new neighbor.

"I would have assumed that you have had ample time to work through your psychological issues."

"Well my brain is no longer a pressure-cooker, if that's what you mean, but," Will makes a guttural sound, part nervous cough, part self-deprecating laugh. "I am right beside you, so I don't know how successful I actually was."

* * *

Hannibal can't move his cot, or any of his furnishings, for that matter, but he finds that if he sits with his back to the bars, head tilted just so, he can hear Will breathing. Hear him pacing around his cell, eating his dinner, using the bathroom. He spends several days and nights cataloging the auditory actions of Will Graham, learning the most intimate details he can from nothing but sound vibration.

The exercise is not futile one.

What is the most surprising element, at least to Hannibal, is the lack of discomfort in Will's sleep cycle. There are no impromptu sleepwalking sessions around the cell, no muttering or thrashing in the throws of a particularly active REM cycle.

Will Graham sleeps unburdened for perhaps the first time since Hannibal has become acquainted with him. It's a curious, wonderful, anomaly.

Hannibal entertains a brief mental image of himself and Will in bed together, a featureless act in a featureless room, but it's gone as quickly as it comes, replaced by the all-too vivid images of Will bleeding out on his Persian area rug.

* * *

"This is Chilton's big plan then. Put us together and see what atrocities occur."

"I would not say atrocity, thought I must confess, I am mildly surprised that you are speaking to me at all, given our history."

"Oh, fuck you, Lecter."

"I do not believe I have ever heard you curse before."

Hannibal hears a breathy, humorless laugh, and the sound echoes through him like a grand chorus. It's been so long since he's heard anything beautiful.

"I assume there's a great deal you've never heard me say."

"Speak all the vulgarities you please, Dear Will, there will be no protest from me."

"Well, I'm so grateful I have your permission, you sycophantic, fucking-"

"However, I thought you had found the time to work through your anger?"

"Well, maybe I have a substantially larger amount of rage than previously realized."

Hannibal smiles, against his better judgement, and raps his knuckles on the six inches of concrete that separates them.

"If you are agreeable, might I ask why you have come to be here at all? It was my understanding you had been cleared of your charges."

He knows it is a stretch to expect a candid conversation at this point in their relationship, and Hannibal takes Will's conflicted silence in stride.

"It wasn't my choice."

Hannibal catches finally, after almost two hours of silence. Will's voice is soft and apologetic, though whom he is apologizing to remains a mystery.

"It was a condition of my continued employment with a federal agency."

"Jack's doing?" Hannibal asks, but tuts at his own question. "No, he'd try to protect you from this. Someone higher up the chain, high enough to realize you are an asset, but not so high as to order that you be terminated from the Agency. How many lawsuits were brought against the Bureau after your charges were filed?"

"Enough." Will says bitterly.

"I am sorry you had to go through all that." Hannibal offers. "I would have rather spared you that discomfort."

"You would have had you pulled the knife two inches higher."

"So I've been told."

"I don't think you really wanted to kill me."

"I have also been informed of that as well. Alana claimed it was because I felt a latent attraction toward you."

"Well, now, I've been told about _that _theory more times than I can count."

"People seem to possess an avid fascination with the prospect of sexual deviancy in relation to mental instability."

"You're not insane. You knew exactly what you were doing."

"And you think they care? I was muzzled and chained like a animal before the eyes of millions; no individual in their right mind wants to consider the prospect that 'Hannibal the Cannibal' might be sane enough to rationalize his crimes."

Hannibal pushes himself from the edge of the cot and walks to the desk, shuffling through the loose paper to find his singular portrait of Will.

He needs to hold something tangible, in lieu of the real thing so desperately separated from him.

"If you want to know the true state of humanity," Hannibal continues. "Look at what suffering you were forced to endure in the name of justice and accountability. The only surviving victim of the 'Chesapeake Ripper', and instead of sympathy and understanding the public foisted their collective rage and resentment onto your shoulders; blaming you for not discovering me quickly enough, blaming you for not succumbing to the wounds I inflicted upon your being. They blamed you for my crimes because you found the strength to survive."

Hannibal is met with silence that rings in his ears, and he can feel his heartbeat in his throat; steady, but noticeable.

"You sound angry for me." Will tells him finally, voice raw and hollow like he had been the one speaking, not Hannibal.

"I am angry for what has become of you." Hannibal answers, watching the smudged black gaze of Will's charcoal counterpart.

He doesn't know how much time passes after he speaks, because he's lost in the imperfections of his work. Will's lips are too thin. His cheekbones aren't symmetrical. He knows these things and still he can't bring himself to alter the drawing, too concerned with losing what accuracy he has already achieved.

The lights dim marginally and the hallway is silent.

If he tilts his head just so, Hannibal can hear Will breathing.

* * *

It's nearly a week before Will initiates conversation with him again.

"Tell me a story." Will demands one evening. Hannibal doesn't need clarification as to what Will is asking, but he does appreciate specificity.

"Which one?"

"All of them. I want to know what destroyed you."

Hannibal obliges, and over Miggs' hoarse moans he paints a picture of murder and survival that he piece-meals from his vast knowledge of the literary world and the various horrors he's committed in his life.

When he finishes, Miggs has likely lapsed into unconsciousness, but Will is curiously silent.

"You didn't like my story?"

"No," Will says, like he can't decide if he's irritated. "It was very entertaining, a grand epic for a grand man; but none of it was true."

Hannibal mentally chastises himself for attempting to lie to Will, a test meant to gauge the extent of his empathy.

"It is a conversation for another time, I should think."

"No, please, one day I'd like to understand why you took a knife to me. I believe I deserve that much. All we have here is time."

* * *

They live like this for weeks, inexorably intertwined and yet so separated Hannibal has moments of doubt as to whether Will actually exists until Will speaks and the world rights itself again.

* * *

"Alana thought you loved me." Will tells him lightly one morning after he's returned from a session.

"She was convinced that was the reason you couldn't outright kill me; because you had feelings for me."

Hannibal doesn't feel the need to respond, and Will continues on.

"At first I thought that was absurd. You pretended to be my friend, you nearly killed me a half-dozen times before just as my psychiatrist, even if you weren't as overt about it."

Will is quiet, as if trying to gather his thoughts.

"It took me a while to recall what you'd said to me, that night, because all I could think about was the 'I'll eat your heart' line, which admittedly was very sinister," Will breaks off with a small laugh as if his attempted murder was simply an inside joke between friends.

"I am glad you appreciated it." Hannibal smiles, knowing the levity will seep into his tone of voice as Will composes himself to continue on.

"But you didn't mean it," Will says finally, voice steady. "I remembered what you kept asking me, begging me, when you thought I was dying."

Hannibal waits, because even he cannot recall exactly what he uttered over Will's bloodied body those years ago. The thought is a disconcerting one, denying Hannibal what little power he seems to have here: his memory.

"I let myself get into your head and," Will trails off, Hannibal can hear him breathing rhythmically in a butchered meditation technique.

"You asked me to forgive you. More than once. At first I thought about Abigail and how her father kept apologizing, telling her it would be alright, and I realized that wasn't it. Hobbs killed those girls to prevent himself from killing his daughter. You,"

Will stops again, but Hannibal genuinely wants to hear what the man has to say.

"You didn't want to kill me. Not really."

"You weren't meat, Will." Hannibal says, filling the silence, and Will just laughs.

"No," Will agrees, word tinged with pained mirth. "I was your _friend_."

"I still consider you to be a friend." Hannibal assuages, and Will just laughs; a breathless sound comprised of more anguish than humor.

* * *

As time passes, formalities deteriorate and Hannibal feels they're all the better for it.

"Does Chilton even try with you anymore?" Will asks one afternoon, about three months into his incarceration. There isn't a better word Hannibal can come up with for what this is.

"Not measurably. He sends therapists and psychologists down every now and then. I do my best to unnerve them."

"Sounds about right. Do you threaten to eat them?

"I was a very successful psychotherapist, Will. I know how to exploit an individual to get the results I desire."

"Of course you do."

Hannibal can hear a light tapping. Fingernails on metal; a nervous tic.

"And how are you navigating Chilton's examinations?"

"I feel like I'm loosing my mind. They keep changing my medication. Taking pills away, changing the doses, whatever seems to strike their fancy. One minute I'm hearing voices-"

"Do not be too concerned, that is only me."

"Hearing voices that _aren't_ yours - but don't think I don't hear you whispering to me when you think I'm sleeping - the next I'm hallucinating, smelling things, feeling things," Will's voice is strained, as if he's only now realizing how much of a problem this really is.

"Chilton is attempting to break you."

"And they keep showing me crime scene photos, autopsy pictures, mostly of cases you were involved with."

"Likely by forcing the recollection of traumatic memories, housing you next to me and drugging you with questionable substances."

"He's not trying to break me, he's trying to break _you_."

The revelation is not a new one.

"He is attempting to revert you back to the same state you were in before I was exposed?"

"I can only assume."

* * *

"I'm seeing someone."

"Alana?"

"No, no, she's," Will stops, as if realizing he's said too much. "She's not Alana."

"Well," Hannibal retorts, feeling slighted that Will is reluctant to share. "I do hope she's still waiting for you after you leave here."

Will doesn't speak to him for a week, and Hannibal can practically hear the man thinking, going over everything he's said to make sure nothing damning was uttered in the illusion of safety.

"I won't hurt you, Will. Or her. I have no reason to."

It's a peace offering, small and innocent. He means what he says.

"I know that Hannibal," Will responds, words almost drowned out by Miggs' incessant babbling. "I just don't trust your definition of 'hurt'."


	5. Chapter 5

**Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; Excerpt from Official Transcript; Supervising Therapist: Dr. Frederick Chilton; Patient: Lecter, Hannibal; (13:56, 12/09/2017)**

**/Audio Recording Edited for Content (Federal Authorization: 70392-Crawford, Jack; 6/12/2018)/**

***Recording Start***

_"Did you get what you needed?"_

_"I think so. The mind is a terribly complicated thing, we may not know how Mister Graham's presence affected you until a much later date."_

_"The things I'm going to do to your flesh, Frederick. You will regard Abel Gideon's trespasses as the workings of a petulant child."_

_"I can see I've struck a nerve. That's still progress, Hannibal."_

_"Do not test me."_

***Recording End***

* * *

There are nights where Hannibal will lie on his miserable excuse for a bed, eyes shut against the perpetual glare of recessed halogen lighting, and spend hours describing the crimes he's committed in excruciating detail.

He did this before Will's arrival as an experiment to see exactly what he could do to the mental states of the patients in the other cells, then the guards and finally, on some level, himself.

Williams didn't last more than three weeks, but that was pure intent on Hannibal's part.

It's different now. Hannibal has a curiously captive audience in Will. So the experiment continues, despite Hannibal's better judgement arguing against the decision.

Sometimes, Will tells him to shut up, to fuck off, any number of vulgarities to shock him into silence, but very little shocks a man like himself anymore.

Other nights, the ones few and far between where Chilton has pushed a thought too deep, or a dosage too high, and Will is silent as the grave. Those are the nights where Hannibal knows Will needs to hear him, the words he's saying, no matter how disturbing, because he needs the connection their shared past provides.

Likewise, if Hannibal has to listen to Miggs furiously masturbate for hours on end, he will make damn sure the man can properly envision what his testicles might look like shoved into his eye sockets.

* * *

The guards never move Hannibal to recreation when Will is in his cell. An infuriating power-play on Chilton's part that, to the man's credit, does set Hannibal slightly on edge.

They spend months like this, and Hannibal just wants to _see_ the other man. A brief look, anything at all to connect to the jaded voice he hears daily with the vibrant corpse he had left behind so many years ago.

The incredibly vain part of Hannibal wants Will to never see him in this state, unkempt and slipping steadily out of his prime; but the increasingly desperate part of him, the part that savored the kill and not the careful feast that followed, doesn't care about judgement or self-conscious behavior.

He just wants to see Will, glimpse the scar that no doubt graces the man's belly, a lasting, glorious marker of Hannibal's ownership.

Guilt and pride war throughout his subconscious, tattering the walls of his palace and destroying years of careful construction. It's terrifyingly beautiful and Hannibal needs some kind of release lest he crumble within the confines of his own mind.

* * *

"Do you imagine everyone you meet as a potential culinary dish?"

"Of course not. When you see a steer in a field, or a game bird in the sky do you immediately begin planning a meal around that image? No. You marvel at a creature in it's natural environment and move on. You do not hop the fence and slaughter the beast."

"Please tell me you see the hypocrisy in that statement."

"Did you see me strutting around Maryland with a scale in one hand and a cleaver in the other?"

"Well, no,"

"I do possess some level of tact, dear Will. Tact, and patience."

* * *

Hannibal doesn't miss the way their conversations devolve. Will's questions, his curiosity, are dulled, his mind fuzzy and voice pained.

It's difficult to witness, even in Hannibal's stunted way, because this is what Will had predicted. Chilton using Will as a bargaining chip between them.

* * *

"They upped my meds again. I can't even identify the pills anymore."

The announcement is not unexpected.

"How do you feel?"

Will mutters something Hannibal can't quite understand.

"Pardon?"

"Unstable." Will repeats. "Like there's a dozen people in my head and none of them are me." Will goes silent and Hannibal can hear the man's rhythmic pacing.

"I thought I was past this," Will laments, voice heavy with emotion. "I thought I was free of you."

Hannibal knows this is the beginning of the end. Will is due to be released in a month's time, and Chilton is running out of options. Running out of chances to break Hannibal.

Desperation, after all, is the father of reckless experimentation, and Chilton is growing very desperate.

"You destroyed me," Will adds. "Do you understand? Everything you did, everything you foisted upon me, what you made people believe," he trails off. "I trusted you to take care of me."

Hannibal glances around his cell. "Evidently a mistake."

"Tell me why. Tell me why I was so appealing." The sentence rolls off Will's tongue with the cloying thickness of despair and reluctant curiosity.

"I considered you a friend. I was concerned that with the treatment of your encephalitis, you would lose the very qualities that made us compatible. I should have possessed more faith in your mental faculties, and for that I apologize."

Hannibal is half surprised by his own admission and presses a thumb hard to the bridge of his nose as Will laughs ruefully, the sound bordering on hysterical.

"Just like that. Just like that you think I'll forget that you made everyone think it was me? That I was the Chesapeake Ripper?"

Hannibal's head throbs dully with the beginnings of a tension headache.

"I do not expect anything from you, Will. All I can do is attempt to convey my personal truth and hope that it is a sufficient balm for your wounds."

Hannibal receives no response and after several minutes assumes Will has lapsed into unconsciousness.

"You wear your fuck-toy out, Lecter?"

Miggs. Always Miggs.

"I would advise you to hold your tongue." Hannibal replies, the dull ache behind his eyes now a throbbing pain.

One month. Just four weeks until Will is gone again and Hannibal is free to do as he pleases.

* * *

"I don't think Molly will like me like this," Hannibal catches one evening, shortly after their dinner trays have been removed and he's trying to recapture the gentle curves of Bedelia Du Maurier's face with blunted charcoal. "She doesn't like it when I talk about work."

"Molly?" He inquires, though truthfully Hannibal knows this must be the woman Will had mentioned not long ago.

"My girlfriend. You don't get to eat her, she's nice to me."

Will clucks his tongue oddly.

"Shit, I think they drugged my food."

Hannibal allows his lip to curl into a sneer. The rest of their conversation is unintelligible and it takes an hour to smudge away the black streak he accidentlay made in anger.

For all his effort, Bedelia's cheekbones are jagged and inhuman.

He can't fix it.

* * *

Hannibal wakes to the echoes of severe gastric distress and it takes seconds to realize that the sound is coming from Will's cell.

"Will?"

"Back to bed, Lecter." Phillips tells him when he presses himself against the reinforced plexiglass, fruitlessly attempting to catch a glimpse of whatever medical emergency is occurring just out of sight.

"What is wrong with him?" Hannibal demands.

"Graham, I need you to acknowledge you can understand me."

"Back to bed!"

Miggs is crowing something vile Hannibal choses to ignore before he catches sight of a gurney.

"Will." Hannibal asks again, concern slipping into his voice.

"Lecter, Miggs, I swear to Christ,"

Phillips moves in front of Hannibal's cell, his large form blocking what little view he had to begin with.

"He'll be fine," Phillips tells him, hard expression belaying the comfort the words should provide. "Go back to bed."

When the guard finally moves, the gurney is gone, the echoing slam of the security gate the only lingering sign of it's presence at all.

Hannibal doesn't sleep that night. Nor does he try to.

* * *

Hannibal doesn't dream.

He has nightmares. Terrors that shock him awake and send his pulse racing. He doesn't dream.

Except for when he does.

* * *

On the night Will is confined to the infirmary, Hannibal closes his eyes and opens them again miles away, to find himself in his study over Will Graham's rapidly cooling corpse.

Hannibal is not awake, he knows this, but he is in a lucid state, and he recognizes that he's envisioning what could have been had he been more intent on ending Will's life.

Soon, however, control slips away. With every breath foreign thoughts flood his consciousness, and something pained swells in his chest. Reality shifts, and the man before him is not his friend, but his lover.

Hannibal has done something terrible.

Unforgivable.

* * *

Will is not meat.

* * *

So when Hannibal lays out Will's body on a stainless steel examination table in his basement, he is wholly unclear how to proceed.

In the end, he starts by winding Will's small intestines back into his abdomen. Wiping away the blood and bile Hannibal himself had wrongly drawn from the man in the first place.

There is a part of Hannibal, a small, naive piece, that hopes his actions are enough; that putting everything back in it's rightful place will cause Will to magically reawaken. He even grasps Will's stiff hand, lacing their fingers in the hope that when his lover awakens he'll greet Hannibal with that same tired smile as always.

But Will doesn't open his eyes; his body stays stiff with rigor and ropey intestine slides from his gut like a snake on a cold morning.

Hannibal braces his arms on the side of the table and leans down, resting his cheek on Will's still chest, unflinchingly aware of the still heart beneath. The meat, the muscle that carried Will through Hannibal's life cooling and stiffening under his watchful gaze and he can't let Will go to waste.

Hannibal cuts quickly to drain the blood and preserve the organs, trying valiantly not to think of his beloved sister and the dozens of unworthy men and women who came after her, never able to do his psychosis justice.

Still he cuts, and he carves, hollowing Will's chest and abdomen while leaving the ribcage intact. From above the pectorals, Will looks untarnished, as if only sleeping through a haze of noir celluloid.

Hannibal separates the organs, examining each in turn with a meticulous eye, memorizing every detail, every slick curve, irregular dip, the color, the smell. He cradles Will's heart in his hands, and although he rationally knows that love is a hormonal impulse triggered within the brain, he presses a kiss to the still muscle in a homage to zeitgeist symbology.

"Will," he says, savoring the feel of his lips against the organ. "I am truly sorry."

Will opens his eyes but does not answer, and Hannibal believes that may be for the best.

* * *

Hannibal wakes with the taste of bile on his tongue and clean, red crescent moons cut into the palms of his hands.

He can't hear Will breathing.

He doesn't believe in a power higher than himself, but if he did...if he did, he would think this was a punishment, to take from Hannibal the one pure thing left in his life.

But he doesn't believe in God, or Allah, or Krishna, or Zeus or Quetzalcoatl or any mythological figure that exists to shoulder the blame for the follies of man.

He doesn't believe in god, but if he did, he would think Will was a punishment.

* * *

Will returns two days later, and after being re-situated in his cell greets Hannibal with, "Apparently I managed to ingest the wrong pills. My mistake."

Hannibal's relief overrides his seething rage, if for a moment.

"The only possible explanation, of course." he says, dry lips catching on the words.

"Of course." Will responds.

Two weeks. Hannibal reminds himself. Just two more weeks and Will shall be rid of this place and rid of him.

* * *

Will almost makes Hannibal feel human again; like after all this time he still has some stake in this world, that his lot in life is not to simply cull the herd.

"I wonder what it would take to break you." Hannibal ponders one afternoon, and Will answers with his requisite exasperated sigh.

"How do you know you didn't?"

Hannibal does not realize this will be their last conversation.

* * *

Will disappears on a thursday.

To where, Hannibal cannot say. Presumably to whatever home has replaced the stalwart fortress that was once provided by Wolf Trap, Virginia. This is done while he is otherwise occupied being hosed down in what passes for a shower. When Hannibal returns to his cell, feeling residual mortification over his sallow skin and lank, greying hair after viewing himself in a proper mirror, he does his standard glance into Will's perpetually empty cell. Only the room is different in those subtle ways that belie the lack of an actual occupant.

The bed is neat. Toilet paper has been removed from it's holder. Books, letters, anything personal is gone, swept away, no doubt, to be over analyzed by individuals not fit to lick the boot-heels of their intended subject of study.

Miggs howls at him for nearly an hour, Hannibal responds by folding himself onto his cot, lacing his fingers across his abdomen, and venturing into what remains of his mental palace.

* * *

In another plane of consciousness, Hannibal offers Will a glass of wine. They fuck on a bed of furs in a land that is no longer his birthright.

He pretends that he was whole enough to protect Will from the deviancies so ingrained in his subconscious.

It's all fabrication, but it's a small measure of peace.

* * *

Chilton pokes and prods about Will, asking invasive, intimate questions whose answers Hannibal could never hope to be privy to.

His life slides back into the same monotony as before, but for all that Will's presence brought some measure of peace to Hannibal's troubled thoughts, he is more restless than ever before.

He returns from his latest session to a haphazard pile of mail; medical journals, magazines and inane letters spilling over one another and covering a large portion of Bedelia's face.

He takes the time, as always, to filter through the contents of every delivery. This is, after all, the only real entertainment he has left.

Perhaps this is why, on the third day of sorting, Hannibal is so struck by the discovery of a single letter, transcribed onto toilet paper and signed, not with an identifiable signature, but with an imprint of teeth.


	6. Chapter 6

**Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; After Incident Report; Supervisor: Eric Phillips; Patient(s) Involved: Lecter, Hannibal; (01/19/2018)**

**/Transcript Edited for Content (Federal Authorization: 70392-Crawford, Jack; 6/12/2018)/**

**Excerpt:**

_"Around four a.m, roughly, patient became unsettled, speaking incoherently and was monitored for several minutes by closed-circuit surveillance before beginning to thrash and yell hysterically for nearly thirty seconds. Outburst ceased when neighboring patients began to wake and engaged in further noise disturbance. _

_Lecter, the patient in question, proved to be asleep through the entire ordeal. Medical assistance was not required. On duty staff regarded the event as a 'night terror'."_

* * *

**Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; Excerpt from After Incident Report Interview: Inmate Supervisor Eric Phillips; Facility Supervisor: Frederick Chilton; Patient(s) Involved: Lecter, Hannibal; (05/28/2018)**

**/Recording Edited for Content (Federal Authorization: 70392-Crawford, Jack; 6/12/2018)/**

***Recording Start* **

_"And what, exactly, did Doctor Lecter say to you?"_

_"He said, he said he didn't need to kill me."_

_"He let you go? He killed the other staff on duty, and let you survive?"_

_"He told me I hadn't embarrassed myself like the others, and that If I-"_

_"Yes?"_

_"If I opened the door, he wouldn't go after my family."_

_"And you believed him?"_

_"I believed he'd kill me if I didn't. I saw what he did to David and Roy, I didn't trust him, but, but I'm alive. Unemployed, but alive." _

***Recording Stop***

* * *

Hannibal reads the letter twice before destroying it.

It's almost mournful, the way the delicate paper dissolves when it touches the water; growing transparent to show the dull grey of the stainless steel beneath. Inked confessions blurring quickly.

'Avid Fan' is a man, developed in body but suffering severe emotional and mental distress likely due to familial mistreatment in his youth. The manner in which he addresses Lecter is highly reminiscent to that of an abused child, desperate for affirmation and fearful of unwarranted retaliation; his conditioned reaction to submit to his betters while determining the best ways to please, simultaneously resenting the role and longing for it.

He recalls, briefly, Franklin Froideveaux: the man's simpering demeanor and pervasive desire to 'touch greatness'. The author is a man of Franklin's yearning character, but in possession of Tobias Budge's rampant internal demons.

Hannibal is fascinated, but not in a manner that lends itself to clear action. There is only so much one can do from the sub-basement of a mental institution.

The deteriorating paper spirals away quickly and Hannibal knows the author in question has killed before and will likely kill again. It truly is a shame Hannibal is no longer shadowing Crawford's team; he would quite enjoy witnessing this killer operate with such reluctant motivations.

Hannibal will simply have to live vicariously through handwritten communication.

He cannot respond through conventional means, but it seems his 'Avid Fan' has thought of that as well, and there are fantastically creative instructions for return communication.

Perhaps he will have a role to play in this story after all.

* * *

Hannibal arranges an interview with a graduate student (another 'avid fan', though this one is substantially less driven to conspicuous homicide) and easily talks the man into leaving a comment on Tattlecrime's latest _'Where are they now?' _article regarding Hannibal's own incarceration.

Just a little something to get the ball rolling and provide some much needed entertainment.

It is far from a difficult intellectual leap to connect the anonymous letters with the 'Tooth Fairy' of growing infamy that has touched so many of his mindless correspondences of late.

Hannibal wonders how long it will take for Chilton and the others to realize what he already knows.

* * *

Hannibal's sketches become increasingly surreal in the weeks after Will's departure. Much like the clocks he'd requested of his counterpart so long ago, his artwork is a bellwether of his stability, of his unwavering control of his faculties.

He tests himself; sketching buildings and intricate architecture. Bodies and faces. The guards sneer quietly at his requests for paper and graphite. It is not until one morning when, palms smeared with grey-black charcoal dust, that he blinks and realizes he's not sketching fair Bedelia, but his mother, with her angelic hair and bright, lifeless eyes.

Hannibal doesn't finish the piece.

If he possessed the capacity to do so, he would burn it.

* * *

'Avid Fan' must receive his message, because the next few letters - spaced closely together and containing far more detail than before - take a significantly darker tone. Hannibal can only assume that he it witnessing the final unraveling of a man who recognizes the hounds are circling.

The change, however, comes in the form of the man's misplaced hero worship and his desire to please Hannibal and an unknown force by 'correcting his unfortunate failures'.

Truthfully, Hannibal has no real understanding of what this might mean. He can only assume the man is suggesting the perceived failures in technique leading up to Hannibal's capture; his failure to remain free.

All of this, however is meaningless in the face of what Hannibal _is_ able to ascertain: the Tooth Fairy wishes to kill him. Though this may be an act of deference in the man's eyes, Hannibal cannot abide such blatant disrespect.

* * *

Hannibal invites the student back and plants a second message, this one much more important than the first. If he is unable to destroy this dragon-obsessed psychopath, perhaps Will can do the honors.

He falls asleep to an imagined scene of Will, his dear Will, choking the life out of his faceless 'Avid Fan'.

If he wakes screaming to a different image altogether, that is no business but his own.

* * *

Chilton orders that his books and writing utensils be confiscated. An unnecessary action, given his arguably passive behavior these last few months, but dear Frederick's mind is so very unconventional. Infantile, really.

Regardless, without a lack of outside stimuli, Hannibal's attentions have no choice but to turn inward. As a result, the dreams return with alarming frequency, though Hannibal begins to regard them a bit more as hysterical delusions.

He, for one, is not keen on such a diagnosis, but time and circumstance will do terrifying things to even to most adept of minds.

Thankfully, his mental palace is untouched, but he cannot maintain a state of meditation at all times; despite his best efforts.

There is a silver lining to the deterioration of his mental prowess, however, and that gleaming prize is the Will Graham he fabricates in his subconscious mind.

* * *

He catches the scent of jasmine and tenses the muscles in his hand to trail his rough nails across the fabric of his trousers, forgetting, if only for a moment, that his garment is provided by the state.

"Doctor Bloom." Hannibal says. He does not need to open his eyes to know the woman that stands before his cell.

"Hannibal." Alana responds, voice stiff, not with reluctance, but desperation.

"Surely you must be hesitant to seek my council again, so tell me: what crisis are you facing that demands you resort to such measures?"

Hannibal moves to stand, rising from his bed with all the grace this moment deserves.

"Jack sent me."

"In Will's stead, I should assume?"

Hannibal meets her eyes and marvels at what damage time has wrought upon Alana Bloom; though, in all fairness, he did have his part to play.

"I have been advised not to speak to you about him, not that I was planning on doing that to begin with," the halogen lighting in the hallway makes her newly dyed hair glint dully. "I'm hear to talk to you about-"

"The Tooth Fairy. Really not a difficult fact to ascertain."

"Given you've been corresponding with him." Alana bites, hands perched on her hips, elbows bent wide. The stance reminiscent of an outdoorsman attempting to make themselves appear larger in the presence of a predator.

"Not entirely accurate," Hannibal tells her mirroring her authoritative position. "He has been sending mail to me, I have not reciprocated the action."

"That remains to be seen." she scoffs, and Hannibal notes the slight smear of mauve lipstick that appears on her central incisor.

Hannibal thinks back to Jack. To Chilton stealing away his amenities one by one. To the indignities Will has suffered at the hands of so many tasked with his protection. And he thinks of Alana, standing here before him with the resolute posturing of a woman convinced of her deductive reasoning.

"What do you wish to know?"

"Tell me why you did it. Why you sent Dolarhyde after Will."

"Dolarhyde?" Hannibal lets the name sit heavy on his tongue, meaningless despite it's weight. "I assumed he would be working this case, given the conditions of his institutionalization."

Alana blinks back surprise. "So it was true, he was here."

"Not ten feet from where you are standing."

Her face flushes with anger but the moment is forgotten when Phillips calls out. "Doctor Bloom."

They both turn at the address, but Hannibal mentally chastises himself when he can't see anything beyond the edge of his cell.

"There's an urgent message for you in the office."

Alana makes a face and points a finger at Hannibal. "We're not done here," she says, turning away.

Hannibal can't help but think she's mistaken in that assumption.

* * *

True to form, Alana does not return, instead Hannibal is visited by a much less friendly face.

"They know you were the one communicating with Dolarhyde," Chilton says, insincerity pulling at the corner of his mouth. "And they know you're the one responsible for Graham's death."

The room tilts sharply and Chilton smiles indulgently.

"Oh, did your contacts not pass that tidbit on? Dolarhyde mutilated him. It's a shame we won't get the chance to study either of them. I have petitioned for Graham's brain, purely for study. If you're good, I might even let you see it."

Hannibal blinks and Chilton is gone, the lights dimmed slightly. The clock glows 22:14.

* * *

Hannibal tries to sleep.

* * *

He can feel the blood seep beneath his gloves where his hands are wrist deep in the man's chest, and he realizes he's speaking platitudes; pleading with him not to die, not tonight, but the heart monitor stutters and trills it's own damning response and Hannibal curses in languages he knows the other staff cannot identify.

The man's eyes are open. Pale blue set in a face coated with dirt and congealed blood and bound by an oxygen mask, and Hannibal knows those eyes.

He's seen them a hundred times: watching him sleepily from across a breakfast table, crinkling at the corners with irritation when Hannibal mentions anything to do with either of their professions and _no, please no, not him._

But Will looks at him with unmitigated serenity. Even in this moment, in an operating theatre that reeks of antiseptic and blood, Will is remarkable.

Hannibal's hand slips, brushing something vital and precious and the monitor screams _'murderer'_ in it's dead little tone, and he blinks as the room burns to ash and ice around him; Will dissolving into nothingness, the heart muscle in his hands too small, too fragile to have belonged to more than a child.

_Will._

_Mischa. _

* * *

Hannibal wakes to the blare of an automated alarm, mouth dry and throat burning with the ache of unconscious vocalization.

He decides he's had enough. Enough of Chilton's posturing, enough of Miggs' obscene screeching and more than enough sub-par cuisine to last him a lifetime. No more mind games, no more toleration of pawns and the fools that lead them.

With a clarity of thought brought only by despair, he realizes what Dolarhyde intended when he spoke of Hannibal's failure. His unfinished work. His last kill.

Hannibal has played his hand and lost.


End file.
